Free Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) by Court Ellyn Page B

fellas name their price, then decide they don’t want the silver after all.”
    The commander eyed the pile of
silver mounded in Laral’s palm. His mouth pursed. A glare slid toward the
sentry. “We’ll talk about this later.” He took six coins off the top of the
pile, fisted them, and said, “Follow me.” He led Laral and his companions
between the disgruntled sentries, under the portcullis, and into the gatehouse
tower. A sergeant lounged at a table, his feet propped up, boot heels resting
on an open ledger.
    His commander knocked him in the
shins with his knuckles; the sergeant swore but straightened up in the chair.
“What’s your business in Fiera?” the commander asked, handing a quill to Laral.
    “I’m here to court a lady.” He
wrote his name in the ledger.
    The commander snorted. “That’s a
new one.”
    “Our ladies don’t want nothing to
do with you, Aralorri,” said the sergeant.
    Laral passed the quill to Drys.
“You’re hardly one to speak for her.”
    The sergeant opened his mouth for a
retort, but the commander cleared his throat in a manner that suggested
retribution if he dared speak again. When the Aralorris’ names were on the
ledger and their toll in the lockbox, the commander waved them out. “Move along
and stay out of trouble.”
    Riding under Nathrachan’s walls,
Drys glanced back at the bridge. “I was sorta hoping for a fight.”
    Kalla slugged him in the shoulder,
whirled and caught Laral in the ribs. “Curses on you both! We’ll be lucky if
they let us back across.”
    “What did I do?” Drys demanded,
rubbing his arm. “Damn.”
    “If Bethyn doesn’t want me,” Laral
said, “I don’t want back across.”
    Kalla snarled, but Laral snatched her
fist before it found another target. “If you risk my neck again,” she
shouted, “it won’t be Fieran steel that ends your torment!” She put spurs to
flanks and galloped off, leaving the boys behind in a contemptuous cloud of
dust.
    The highway led them southwest from
Nathrachan. Miles of wild, tangled brambles stretched between them and the
Bryna. Broad swaths of the thorn trees had been killed out by Dragon fire as
part of Kelyn’s plan to distract the Fieran armies. Scorched, barren branches
clawed at the sky, but among them, young briar bushes flowered white. Nothing
had changed, not really. Not for a thousand years. It would be the same war all
over again, in Laral’s time, or that of his sons.
    They reached Ulmarr Town well after
dark. “I don’t miss this stinking place either,” Drys complained. How many
weeks had they camped among these streets, enduring one assault after another
before Leshan arrived and encouraged Kelyn’s armies to surge on toward Brynduvh?
Walls and towers of a new fortress reared up against an overcast sky. The
entire construction appeared to be tangled in scaffolding. Slivers of moonlight
revealed mounds of raw uncut stone laying at the castle’s feet like offerings, ready
to be shaped and added to gate, keep, and turret. Something about the regenerating
fortress was unspeakably menacing. Perhaps it would look less so in the
morning.
    A couple of Ulmarr’s abandoned inns
had been reopened. Music and light poured from the windows as if war happened
only on the history pages. Merchants’ carts and travelers’ carriages crowded
the yards. Laral and his companions chose the least suspect and, thanks to the
gatehouse commander, they had enough coin for two rooms, three baths, and three
hot meals. Gathering around a table in the common room, they tried not to draw
attention to themselves. A serving wench brought them trenchers of mutton stew
and tankards of ale and asked no questions. Too many spring travelers, too many
refugees still seeking places to settle for her to care about three more new
faces.
    Drys shoveled the stew into his
mouth with the manners of a swineherd. Kalla watched Laral keenly over the rim
of her tankard. “Are you nervous?”
    “I’m too uncertain to be